


my darling

by neroh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Background Gaby/Waverly, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Canon, SPY Idiots in Love, Torture, Whump, blink and you miss it fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28116624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: Honestly, it’s a relief to see Illya like this, given what he’s been through in the last seventy-two hours. The bandages covering injuries and IV line running from a saline bag to the top of the other man’s hand only remind Napoleon of what he nearly lost.Illya gets kidnapped.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 47
Kudos: 113





	my darling

**Author's Note:**

> Hey-o! I'm back after a break from writing. Special thank you to the lovely Ollie for betaing (and being excited about receiving my message about this), the members of the _tmfu !!!_ Discord server (especially Isa), Neffy, Reid, Tess, Lethe, and everyone on the _big feels club_ Discord!
> 
> I do not support Armie Hammer and encourage the same of others as well.

The wooden chair creaks under his shifting weight, waking him from a troubled sleep.

Napoleon presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing them until he remembers that he’s not the only occupant in the room. Lifting his gaze, he finds Illya still sleeping, curled on his side with his face half-hidden by blankets.

Honestly, it’s a relief to see Illya like this, given what he’s been through in the last seventy-two hours. The bandages covering injuries and IV line running from a saline bag to the top of the other man’s hand only remind Napoleon of what he nearly lost. As he reaches for his lover to brush locks of blond hair from Illya’s fevered forehead, Napoleon slows his fingertips as they graze over his skin.

To say that he never expected him and Illya to fall into each other would be a pile of bullshit. Napoleon knew from the moment he presented Illya with his father’s watch, taken from the wrist of a Vinciguerra minion, and the Russian said _You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy_ with fondness bleeding into his voice.

Then came that hot night in Cairo; the one where Illya came to Napoleon’s hotel room with a bottle of vodka. This mission had been a particularly trying one: a lot of dead ends, THRUSH agents infiltrating the ranks of Egyptian Ground Forces, a missing nuclear scientist, a foot chase through Khan El Khalili that ended with MI6 cornering the bad guys and everyone involved being happy to see its conclusion.

While Gaby spent the evening alone in her room, Napoleon and Illya fell victim to the desert’s power to seduce. It started with noticing the sheen of sweat gathering in the hollow of Illya’s throat, then Illya coming closer until he moved into Napoleon’s sphere and crushed their mouths together. Stumbling from the couch to Napoleon’s bed, he and Illya stripped each other of their clothes, fingers making quick work of buttons, buckles, and zippers. It was the first time Napoleon got to touch Illya the way he wanted to, was able to explore his body, and listen to his moans while he fucked Illya into the mattress.

He’ll never forget having Illya’s long legs over his shoulders, trembling while Napoleon’s cock sunk into his wanting body, or the way his dark eyelashes fluttered against his high cheekbones when Napoleon found his prostate, striking it over and over again. Napoleon listened to Illya’s broken command to fuck him harder, rougher, to use him until they both shattered.

And he did. He pinned both of Illya’s capable hands to either side of his head, worried bruises into the delicate skin of Illya’s neck, wrote his name in salvia on Illya’s sweaty collarbone. Napoleon staked his claim, groaning filthily into Illya’s ear and urging him to cum on his cock. To let go and trust that Napoleon would catch him.

Captivating was the word to describe Illya’s face when he arched into Napoleon and came. Like studying Rodin’s _The Kiss_ and being enthralled by its imperfections or tracing the shadows in _Judith Slaying Holofernes_ by Artemisia Gentileschi.

 _Cowboy, I must tell you something,_ Illya whispered later on. They were lying in bed, tangled up in each other while the late-night breeze cooled the sweat on their skin. _I have felt this way for a long time._

Napoleon opened his eyes to look at Illya—the perfect KGB agent, the Great Red Peril, an example of what every Russian man should be—and brushed his hair off his forehead. _Me too, Peril,_ he whispered back. _Me too._

And they fell in love. Dangerously, stupidly, blissfully in love despite the consequences.

But now the consequences are staring Napoleon down as he tries not to think about the worst seventy-two hours of his life.

“How is he?” Gaby asks. She’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom—one of two inside the sparsely furnished safehouse—with her arms folded over her chest. It’s apparent that she hasn’t gotten much sleep.

Then again, neither has Napoleon.

They’ve been running on fumes since discovering the destruction in Illya’s hotel room—the shattered glass coffee table, upturned furniture, splintered wood, streaks of blood, and the Russian agent nowhere in sight. For all of the horrible things Napoleon has seen in his colorful life—casualties of war, victims of espionage— _that_ image is the worst of them.

He has to keep reminding himself that they found Illya. That their trio is unbroken and his lover is sleeping just scant inches away from him.

“Still sleeping,” Napoleon answers as he stretches his arms. He feels the muscles in his back aching in protest for sitting too long in the chair. “That doctor gave him one hell of a cocktail.”

Gaby sighs, “ _Arschloch_ ,” as she comes over to Napoleon and leans against the bedside table. She still hasn’t changed out of her dirty clothing. Illya’s blood stains the black fabric of her turtleneck and slacks, but then again, there hasn’t been much downtime.

From the moment Napoleon found Illya strung up by his wrists—bloodied, bruised, tortured—in an unnamed organization’s underground prison to when he carried him out with Gaby covering them, they’ve been going at full speed. Illya’s injuries are serious, especially the aborted brand that a man burned into his side to inflict agony before ripping it away, Illya’s skin with it.

The scream torn from Illya’s throat will be something that will haunt Napoleon’s nightmares for some time, or maybe it’s the endless whimpers slipping through Illya’s chapped lips, begging Napoleon to make the pain stop as tears leaked down his face.

Napoleon remembers Illya shivering, uncontrollably, and shrieking at every turn or acceleration of their getaway car. All of it so uncharacteristic for such a formidable man; so terrifying that it nearly broke Napoleon. Biting back his own tears, Napoleon held his lover in his arms and uttered soothing words. _The doctor will be at the safehouse, my darling,_ he told him. _And he’ll give you something for the pain; I promise._

An eternity passed before the three of them arrived at the safehouse where a stout man with a bushy mustache and very little wiry hair on his head came shortly after. His dark eyes were hidden behind thick glasses, giving him a sort of mad scientist appearance.

Once inside, the doctor took in Illya’s condition while he filled a syringe with clear fluid and declared that his patient would need to be bathed. _He could be at risk for infection if we leave him like this_ , the doctor explained as he injected Illya with what Napoleon guessed to be morphine.

Together, he and the doctor guided Illya to the bathroom where they stripped what little clothing he had on him and began to fill the tub with water. In the other room, Gaby could be heard on the phone with Waverly, telling him of the rescue mission’s success. Napoleon held Illya upright as the doctor covered the burn on his side with a plastic wrap to keep it from getting wet.

 _Cowboy, I want to sleep,_ Illya mumbled a little later. _So tired._

 _I know you are, Peril. Just a bit longer,_ Napoleon whispered while the doctor fixed an IV to the back of Illya’s hand and injected it with a sedative. He watched his lover’s eyes droop, shutting slowly until Napoleon heard the blessed sound of Illya’s deep sigh.

“What did Waverly say?” Napoleon wonders.

“It wasn’t THRUSH,” she tells him.

Napoleon blinks. Gaby’s talking about the people who took Illya; the ones who tortured him for three days straight with no food and barely any water. “Who was it?”

Her expression hardens; she looks like a killer. It reminds Napoleon that Gaby is no longer the Little Chop Girl he found in East Berlin. She’s better than him and Illya; Gaby Teller is going to rule the world. “The KGB.”

His brain stutters momentarily. Every part of Napoleon goes on pause as his thoughts catch up while dread sinks its icy claws into him. “W-what?” he asks. “His own…”

“Alexander,” Gaby begins to tell him with emotion in her voice, “found out that Illya was recalled to Moscow and he refused to go.”

A ragged breath escapes through Napoleon’s parted lips as his gaze finds Illya’s sleeping face. “He never told me,” Napoleon whispers.

“He never told anyone,” Gaby mentions, quietly. “Because he didn’t want to leave you.”

Napoleon’s chin begins to tremble as the hot sting of tears pool at his waterline. The gravity of Gaby’s words slams into him because it’s true. Illya loves Napoleon as Napoleon loves him back with such desperation that it ought to be conveyed in art. Perhaps a sculpture that combines Illya’s Adonis-like beauty with Napoleon’s rough edges. An early Rodin-inspired masterpiece or, perhaps, a Camille Claudel.

“Or you,” he adds; it’s a lie. They both know it.

“But mostly you,” Gaby says. She rests her hand on his shoulder and pulls him close. Napoleon rests his head against her side and closes his eyes while Gaby runs her fingers through his hair. “You would light the world on fire just to save him.”

Napoleon nods in agreement. “Wouldn’t you do the same for Waverly?”

Gaby’s fingers stop. It’s a rarely discussed topic and even fewer people know about Gaby and Waverly’s relationship. They’ve been together for several years and while some might say that she’s with their boss in a grab for power, they are fools. Gaby and Waverly are mad about each other; the type of romantic partnership Napoleon envied until he found it with Illya. “Yes,” she answers after a while. “I would.”

“So what now?” Napoleon asks. “Do we agree to send Illya back to the very people who tried to kill him?”

“He’s staying with us,” Gaby tells him. “Alexander arranged it. Apparently, the Chairman has a fondness for capitalist decadence and underage teenagers.”

Napoleon bites back his laughter. “I never suspected that Alexander Waverly would resort to blackmail.”

“Hmm,” Gaby hums, noncommittally. She pats his shoulder. “It takes all sorts, my friend.”

* * *

It’s been twenty-four hours since the sedation wore off and turned into sleep when Napoleon hears the change in Illya’s breathing; that endearing snuffling sound the other man makes every time he wakes.

Napoleon has spent those hours reading a worn science fiction paperback he found stuffed into one of the cabinets. It’s interesting in a B-movie sort of way if one likes intergalactic romance. He sets the book down and pulls the chair closer to the bed where he waits. The minutes crawl until he’s greeted by the beautiful sight of Illya’s blue eyes and the crooked smile on his lips.

“Hello,” Illya greets, his voice raspy from disuse.

He smiles back as he reaches for Illya’s cheek, taking great care not to touch any of his injuries. Napoleon feels his worries crumbling as he caresses the familiar lines and planes of his lover’s face; places he memorized for the nights they are apart. “Hello, my darling,” he whispers.

It’s like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](HTTP://nerodeniro.tumblr.com) or join [THE BIG FEELS CLUB](https://discord.gg/KEjfJGh) Discord server!


End file.
